


we are nothing but violence

by fatalsam (bitehard)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Has Panic Attacks, Gen, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, implied-blink-and-you-miss-it-past-buckynat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27369094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitehard/pseuds/fatalsam
Summary: You wake up. You look at your hands.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Kudos: 17
Collections: Reto Halloween 2020 fandomium





	we are nothing but violence

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [no somos más que violencia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27160330) by [bitehard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitehard/pseuds/bitehard). 



> Written for the Halloween prompts on Fandomium discord. Title from Violence, Editors.  
> Quotes prompt #2. 
> 
> _Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them. (Edgar Allan Poe)_

You wake up and the first thing you do is look at your hands. That usually tells you what you need to do; one, if you can see them, two, if they are tied to something, three, if there is a weapon. That is all you need to know to grasp where you are and the kind of job you must do, you discovered a long time ago. Job is a word for it, of course.

It’s just easier like this. 

*

You wake up and it’s too quiet. You look at your hands… your _only_ hand under the soft light of a lamp on the night table. Just flesh, no metal. Bad. You don’t recognize the bed, the closet, the window, the view through it. Worse. You touch your face (no mask), you touch your hair (too long, maybe, or too thin, or too clean). There are no bruises or cuts in your fingers. There is no dirt under your nails, your clothes aren’t torn and your ribs don’t hurt and there is nothing inside your mouth preventing you from biting your tongue.

 _bucky_ , a voice says, from the speaker. There is a speaker in a corner of the ceiling, you see it now, but there wasn’t before, or you would’ve discovered it. It’s your best asset. _bucky_ , the voice carries on, _you are in wakanda_ , and you frown because there is something about that word that you should know, there is something that… _you’re safe, bucky_ , but, how could you be safe? If you have one hand missing and you haven't got a knife to defend yourself.

You look for a way out and that’s when you realize the window is not glass and the door is not wood and you don’t understand where you are when you start throwing punches and something rearranges itself and the room is metal grey and, if you’re safe, why are you in a cage?

*

You wake up, look down and see your wrists tied to a restraint chair. One with rope, the other one with something a lot more sturdy. You are aware that your mouth is being opened so they can insert something into it, something you don’t recognize but bite anyway with a violence and wrath you are not exactly sure where it comes from. Something evades you, your understanding ability, your memory, (a flirting voice saying _bucky_ , but, _who_ _the hell is bucky?_ ) travels around your brain like something you are not allowed to hold. A hand grips your chin almost tenderly, eyes you don’t recognize, a mouth that says the same words over and over again, letters and sounds that make no sense put together. 

You bite so hard you think you ought to break something, the object in your mouth or your own teeth, you feel the metallic taste of the blood and you wish it was something else than your gums unable to endure the pressure. 

The words echo in your mind, one after another; they erase all about the memory you were trying to grasp; the face of the woman you've been with and, she was blonde, or a redhead, or maybe a brunette or all at the same time and she runs away, _see you next time_ , but you don’t remember her name, or yours for all that matters, or why you’ve seen each other or why you deserve so much punishment. The hand tenses on your chin and a fist connects with the side of your face almost at the same time, and you fall asleep or unconscious again and...

*

You wake up, try to look at your hands, and don’t see anything. See, you can’t look _down_ if you are asleep on your side, but you have to know… you have to _know_ where your hands are and what they are doing and which weapon you should use this time. You sit up on the bed and the light that enters the room from the window is enough to finally see them, empty, callous one and cold and metallic the other; you touch your face with them. There is no mask but the urgency is not so big this time, so you stay there in the darkness, still while your eyes get used to all the details in the room, until you remember you don’t have to kill anybody. You’re alone and that’s good. It’s a good night, considering, you haven’t hurt...

* 

You wake up and even before opening your eyes you welcome the known feel of the knife in your hand. 

There is a gun holstered at your hip and a sawn-off shotgun on your back but the knife is what always helps you feel _you._

Whoever you are, anyway.

The mask restricts the movements of your face and you couldn’t talk even if you wanted to. You find a folder on the ground: a name, a face, you take a minute to memorize it and burn it as fast as possible. The door seems to be closed shut so you guess you have to go out through the window. The cold bites your fingers and you know the skin will break before the night falls but you have enough time for… for the job. It’s easy to follow him and make it as his car has an accident. The car spins and jumps and you think _I hope he’s dead already_ knowing you shouldn’t. You’d know that is a horrible thought to have if you remembered anything else about your life. Anyway, if there is a God is not going to be listening to you so of course he is still breathing when you open the wrecked door.

The road and the car and the look in his eyes take you back to another place, another accident and another… (a woman, you remember in a flash, there was also a man but you remember _her_ ) and the same hesitation before killing them: none. But you remember, oh, god, you remember and you can’t stop feeling like, like something is wrong, like you are wrong. But how can you be wrong when you don’t know anything else.

You open the trunk, take the documents you need to run back to the room and wait there with your eyes closed, willing the memories to disappear. 

You almost feel grateful hours later, clinging to a chair for your dear life: bite. You almost feel grateful because you fucking hate to remember. Waking up is bad but remembering is much, much worse. 

*

You… you don’t wake up, you become aware of yourself, which is not the same but who fucking cares anymore. You are in the middle of a fight, in fact, and you don’t need to look at your hands to know there is a knife in them. And thank goodness, because it’s been some time since a fight as vicious and equal as this one. You think it’s even possible _you lose_ and that’s something you really cannot afford. She (redhead, but from the corner of your eye sometimes seems like she is blonde, or dark-haired, maybe) fights you like she had already done it before but the other one is worse. There is something in him that is like going back home, if you knew what having a home was, if someone like you could reminisce about having a home and a place to drop dead.

Well, you _do_ have a place to drop dead, you drop dead routinely, you… You sidetrack for a second and he rips your mask off and you feel the wind in the skin of your exposed face and he looks at you like…

That fucking face you don’t know and that mouth that says a name you _don’t know_ and

_who the hell is bucky?_

*

You wake up and look at your hands, flesh and metal and you don’t remember anything at all and there is someone on the other side of the bed and you look for something to defend yourself with because you know you can find it, you can turn into a weapon almost everything, including yourself, _specially_ yourself. He (he?) wakes up too, and says something and the lights turn on and you see him but you still can’t understand fully what’s happening. 

He reaches to you but you jump from the bed, still trying to asses the room and you touch the wall behind you looking for the trick and _shhh,_ he says, _you’re safe, bucky, you’re ok_ and how could you be safe if you don’t know where are you and you don’t have a knife to protect yourself. The man is talking and you start listening and there is stuff there only you know, small things you can now (now?) always remember, your full name and where and _when_ you were born. His hand is still reaching to you and he is sitting up, very slowly, as if he doesn’t want to scare you, _him_ scare _you!_ , as if you couldn’t think of seven ways to kill him before he finishes raising his ass from the mattress. Something clicks there, because he is naked and why would he be… and you look at yourself and you’re also naked and

_Sam_

_god, Sam_

you finally let yourself relax against the wall and it’s so cold it helps a little. You allow yourself to slide down and cover your face with your trembling hands and everything comes back at once, the end of the world and coming back _again_ and that fucking battle and _Steve_ , who you will not see again, not the same one, young and your friend and, _hey, hey, look at me_ and that face you do know, Sam, and those hands you can recall and _sorry, i’m sorry_ , you say, because, what else could you possibly say? and _it’s fine, are you ok? do you know where you are? James?_

How many times has this happened already? How many for Sam to know what he needs to say and for you to trust him? How many in which he doesn’t know or worst, doesn’t care, that you almost killed him?

And yet.

 _Yeah_ , you answer, and the warmth of his hand is like an anchor. Some time ago you would’ve hated the touch when you were like this and now it’s the only thing that ties you to this room. Some time passes until you’re able to stand up and he waits there, on his knees, not saying a word, until your breath seems to go back to normal and the sweat on your back starts to dry.

 _Better?_ , he asks, and you nod and surprise yourself when you actually mean it. Not well, probably never well, but better. 

The dawn hasn’t come yet and he persuades you into getting back into bed. You both lie down at a distance, you are looking up and Sam is acting very hard as he is not worried. You appreciate it, and him, for trying. 

After some time, you muster all the energy you can (which is not much but is something, everyday you build a little more, _not well but better_ , you think) to turn yourself towards him while he is still pretending to be asleep. You reach with your hand in the place between neck and shoulder and Sam melts under your fingers and there is something calming there for you, too. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t try to touch you, he just stays there. 

You don’t want to sleep again, you don’t actually think you’ll be able to but, in the end, just before the birds start to sing (and this time they are real, and the windows are real too) you fall asleep, thinking about everything and nothing, reminiscing memories that are not yours. 

*

You wake up. You look at your hands.


End file.
